


Your Tired, Unfamiliar Face Says It All

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angry Stiles, Asshole Derek, Asshole Stiles, Body Swap AU, Derek's Anchor is Different, False Sexual Abuse Allegation, Gen, Kate Argent Warning, Malia is Not Nice, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Derek wakes up in the middle of the night in Stiles’ body. He doesn’t know what happened or how to change it back. All he knows is he can’t let them stay this way for long. Stiles is totally on board with that plan. Too bad Kate Argent has other plans.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The link to the post that inspired this story is broken. I found it on the Wayback Machine, but I don't know if the original poster would appreciate me posting that link.
> 
> Title comes from Whitaker - My Own
> 
> This takes place during an alternate Season 4 where there is no deadpool but Kate did return.

~ * ~

Derek falls off his bed onto a floor that isn’t his. He sniffs curiously, trying to scent it, surprised when all he smells are dirty socks—he can’t even identify whose dirty socks they are—and dust. He sneezes loudly, several times. He blinks blearily around the room, sniffling now that the sneezes have loosened mucus. There’s just enough moonlight coming through the thin curtains that he can see. Sort of. As he’s examining a calendar, all the Wednesdays and Saturdays marked with “LACROSSE” in block letters, the door flies open and the Sheriff steps into the room.

“Stiles,” he says before Derek can do more than gape at him. “Stiles, it’s three in the morning. What are you doing up?”

The Sheriff must have been dosed with something hallucinogenic. Derek isn’t Stiles. They’re not even the same body type. There’s no way that man can mistake his son for him.

“I sneezed?” Derek tries, and he immediately clamps his mouth shut. Holy shit, that’s not his voice!

The Sheriff glares at him, and Derek ducks his head so he can’t see anything wrong, except then the Sheriff softens his stare and drops onto his haunches so he can run a hand up and down Derek’s back. He shudders in the thin t-shirt and sleep pants Stiles Stilinski favors.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not mad.”

“Yes, you are,” Derek mumbles. He flinches because he can’t hear if it was a lie or not. Apparently being in Stiles’ body means he doesn’t have his abilities.

This sucks. Majorly.

The Sheriff chuckles quietly, squeezing Derek’s shoulder in a way that is supposed to be comforting but really just makes him realize how screwed he is in Stiles’ body.

“Look, I’ve got school in the morning,” he says, a little snappish, wincing at the brief hurt that flashes in the Sheriff’s eyes. “I really should get back to sleep. I’ll try to keep sneezing to a minimum. Okay?”

The Sheriff sighs before hauling Derek up into a crushing hug. Derek awkwardly pats at his back. “Okay,” he says, pulling back and letting Derek climb onto the bed again. “Hey, I’ll drive you tomorrow, okay? I’ve got the morning off. I’d like to spend it with my son.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, nodding quickly and waving a bit when the Sheriff takes his time to exit the room and shut the door.

As soon as he can’t hear the Sheriff’s footsteps anymore, he scrambles to the window, leveraging it up. Even in Stiles’ ungainly body, there is a natural grace that hopefully will keep Derek from face planting off the second story roof of the Stilinskis’ house.

His luck holds, and with a few skids and close calls, he’s down on the ground. He turns to run off into the night and realizes quite quickly that a) Stiles’ body isn’t designed to run long distances and b) he’s already exhausted. He sinks to the grass, stretching out on his back, thinking.

First thing he needs to do is find Stiles. He hopes it was a simple switch-spell (probably a run-in from that Spark at the gym last week) and that Stiles is in his body right now. Shit! He forgot Stiles’ phone. He could have called his own number and see who answered. As it is right now, he’s too damn tired to drag himself back up the side of the house.

Well. He’s not too tired to break back in. Once decided, this course of action is simple to follow. All it takes is opening the kitchen window, helpfully left unlocked by a scatterbrained Stilinski, probably Stiles, and crawling in.

Only to come face to face with the Sheriff’s service pistol.

“God damn it, Stiles,” the Sheriff groans, dropping his arm. Derek doesn’t respond, trying to breathe through the panic that seized his chest. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Wanted to go for a drive,” he wheezes. The Sheriff grabs his arm and yanks him off the table, letting him sink to the floor. “Forgot my keys.”

“Go to bed,” the Sheriff says. He crosses his arms and stares down at Derek for a long moment. “Come on, son.”

Derek ignores the way the word flutters in his heart, too long since he’s been someone’s son. He manages to stand up, wondering how on Earth Stiles is able to keep moving when Derek is nothing but tired. “I’m sorry,” he says, and the Sheriff snorts.

“I doubt that,” he replies. “Just so you know, you are grounded. And I’m definitely driving you to school tomorrow.”

“If you drive me, how am I supposed to get home? Won’t you be at work then?”

“Scott will bring you home.”

“Scott!” Too late Derek remembers he’s not himself.

The Sheriff glares at him before softening his gaze again. “Did you and Scott have a falling out?”

Derek tries to remember the last interactions he had with each boy, finding Stiles to have been upset about something and Scott to be his usual disinterested person. “I don’t know, maybe?” he says.

“Maybe?” the Sheriff repeats. “It’s a yes or no question, Stiles.”

“It’s not that easy,” Derek explains. “I mean, look. I don’t think we’ve had a falling out, but Scott hasn’t really been talking to me lately.” This, Derek knows is true. He saved the text Stiles sent him a week ago (just before he crashed into the Spark—literally) asking about advice for stubborn-headed best friends who refused to see logic. Derek hadn’t responded. Now he wishes he had.

“Fine. Maybe not Scott. How about Lydia?”

Lydia is busy with some placement test. Derek also knows this because of Stiles’ texts. He shakes his head, and the Sheriff sighs. Then, a thought occurs to him. What if he got Stiles—in his body—to pick him up from school? Yeah, he’s not sure any of the parents trust him, least of all the Sheriff, but it couldn’t hurt to try. He’s been trying to be a responsible adult for the past few months despite what Stiles texts him late at night about being a creeping creeper with nothing better to do than scaring people.

“Dad,” he croaks, choking on the dust and bitter of the word. The Sheriff gives him a suspicious look, but Derek ignores it, forging on with his plan. “There is one more person I could ask—”

“No,” the Sheriff interrupts. “Absolutely not. You are not calling Derek Hale for a ride.”

“Why not?” Derek demands. At first he tries to understand, after all he’s an exonerated accused murderer. But, then, he thinks, he’s done his share of being accused and hated for no reason. If the Sheriff wants to ground his son and take away his mode of transportation, then Derek should at least rank a call to action by now.

“Derek Hale is an accused—”

“Exonerated,” Derek sighs, interrupting him. The Sheriff glares harder.

“Murderer,” he finishes. “You and Scott keep trying to tell me you’re not friends with him. Stiles, I went through your phone. You text Derek every day.”

“Not every day,” Derek protests weakly. Stiles _doesn’t_ always text him. It’s just quite frequent right now, actually.

“Son, I looked at your phone. Don’t lie to me.”

“So, what?” Derek thinks this is what Stiles would say. Maybe. “You think you can illegally obtain information and use it against me? Get a warrant! Prove it!”

“What?”

Oh, so Stiles wouldn’t do that?

“The hell, Stiles?” At least the Sheriff seems flustered now. “I’m your father; I pay for the phone plan. Nothing you do with it is illegal for me to obtain.”

“What if I was taking pictures?” Oh, God, shut your mouth right now, Stiles, Derek thinks. Some of the kid’s mind must still be in there.

Now, the Sheriff looks thunderous. “Who are you taking these pictures for, Stiles? Derek Hale?”

“N-no,” Derek stammers, wide-eyed and fearful. Did he just imply he’s a pedophile?

“Then who?”

“There’s no pictures. I promise. You went through the phone. You know there’s no pictures.”

“I don’t know about that,” the Sheriff says. “There’s a picture of Derek Hale on your phone. One of him on a bed, shirtless. You wanna explain that?”

Derek would. He so would, except he doesn’t remember Stiles taking a picture of him that day (the day with the Spark and the gym and being unnaturally tired).

His silence must be the answer the Sheriff wants because he grabs Derek’s arm and drags him up the stairs. Righteous anger and Stiles’ body’s tiredness make it hard to pull free before the Sheriff heaves him onto the bed. He points a very steady finger at Derek’s chest. “You go to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Then he’s gone, leaving what feels like a black hole inside the room. All the air goes away, and Derek feels his chest heaving with the effort of drawing a breath he can’t find.

His fingers tingle and bursts of light spear his vision. He pants, gasping harshly, finding himself flopped over on the bed without the ability to do anything, much less _breathe_.

He whines, the extent of his vocal ability. Oh, God, he’s going to die!

Suddenly, the bed dips with the weight of another body, and his face swims into his vision. What?

His face ducks down, mouth moving like he’s saying something, but Derek can’t hear him over the ringing in his ears. He’s still choking on airlessness when his face presses his lips to his and kisses him.

It’s surprisingly hard; mouths mashed together, teeth clicking in a way that is definitely lacking finesse.

When his body pulls back to sit on his body’s heels on the edge of the bed, Derek pushes himself upright. It’s still hard to breathe and his chest hurts, but at least he is breathing, swallowing down air greedily.

“What the hell?” he says before his body lunges forward to slam a hand over his mouth.

“Shut up, dude,” his voice hisses. Is that what he really sounds like? He’d thought he was deeper.

After a few minutes of listening, his body moves its hand from his face.

“Stiles?” Derek whispers. His head nods.

“What happened? What was that?”

“My guess?” Stiles whispers back. “Panic attack.”

“Hey, your dad thinks I’m…”

“Yeah, I get it. I heard you. Props on the excuse, but you’re lacking the technical knowhow to pull it off.”

“Shut up.”

“Go to sleep, sourwolf.”

“We’re back to that again? What happened to ‘big guy’?”

Stiles eyes him warily, and Derek ducks under the scrutiny. “You’re not a ‘big guy’ anymore. I’m ‘big guy’. You’re just a fragile human.” He grins suddenly, and that must be why everyone winces when he smiles at them. That is just so painful to look at.

“Stiles!” he hisses, grabbing the front of his t-shirt and tugging him closer. “Do not do anything to my body.”

“Oh, like what? Get laid?” Stiles grins again, and Derek feels his stomach drop. “Totally might have to do that.”

“Please don’t,” Derek pleads. He hasn’t been in the right place for a relationship. What Stiles is talking about doing, Derek knows he won’t forgive him for it. “Please.” Horrified, he finds he’s crying, clenching his fingers tight in the cloth, almost sobbing. There’s that airlessness back again too, and he starts gasping. Stiles jerks free, crossing the room so he can sink into the swivel chair at the desk. He looks a little upset.

Derek swipes at his eyes, trying to dry them. Stiles blows out a soft breath.

“Okay, yeah,” he finally says. “I won’t do anything untoward with your body. Happy?”

“Yes,” Derek mumbles. He risks a glance at the clock to find it’s now almost 5:00. Stiles follows his glance.

“Yeah, the alarm goes off at 6:30,” he says. “So you have about fifteen minutes for a shower and thirty for breakfast before you have to be on your way to school by 7:15. Classes start at 8:00. Got it?”

“Yeah. What about your schedule? Where do I go first?”

Stiles turns to the desk scribbling furiously for a few minutes while Derek watches him. He feels a little better about Stiles’ promise. Stiles hands him a paper with times, classes, names, and room numbers. Derek folds it neatly and drops it on the bedside table.

He’s still tired, so he squirms until he can pull the blanket over himself. He turns on his side so he can still see Stiles sitting at the desk. “Your dad grounded me. He wants to talk in the morning. I think he wants to kill me.”

Stiles grins, a less-painful looking one. “You or me?” he says tonelessly. “Derek, if he wants to kill me, he won’t find me. Werewolf, remember?” He wiggles the fingers of his right hand by his head.

“That,” Derek mimics the motion, “doesn’t mean werewolf.” He bares his teeth, snapping them a couple times and hating the fact that they stay human-blunt. “That’s how you say werewolf in werewolf.”

Stiles snorts. “Get some rest, dude. You look beat.”

Derek blinks at him. “I don’t like being called dude,” he mumbles, closing his eyes and turning over.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I am missing tags. I am working on this story as I go so tags will evolve. That said, if you think I've missed a tag, please let me know. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Check out [my Tumblr](https://1989dreamer.tumblr.com) for more writing updates.


	2. Chapter 2

~ * ~

Next he knows, the Sheriff is leaning over him, travel mug of coffee in one hand. “Get up, son. You’ll be late if you don’t get in gear.”

Derek sits up slowly, glancing about the room to find Stiles nowhere in sight. He leans over the edge of the bed and peeks underneath, sneezing when he gets a lungful of sock-air and dust. The Sheriff gives him an amused smile.

“Come on, kiddo.” His tone is fond, and Derek blinks back another round of sudden tears. He hasn’t been called ‘kiddo’ in forever. Not since his Uncle Charlie marched off to join the army after 9/11.

The Sheriff looks a little concerned, offering Derek his mug. A tiny sip proves that coffee is still too bitter for him even though his sense of taste is much less. He grimaces and passes it back, only to find the Sheriff outright staring at him, way past concerned.

“Stiles?” he says, a hand dropping onto Derek’s forehead. The warmth of it feels nice. “You’re ice,” the Sheriff says. He sets the mug on the desk and grabs the blanket to wrap around Derek’s shoulders. “You’re staying home today. I’ll call in too.”

Derek blinks. “Because I’m cold?” he queries. He doesn’t feel cold exactly. Rather, he feels numb. Detached. He thinks of Stiles and wonders if he’s cold too. “Dad,” he chokes again, and the Sheriff glances at him, “I think it’d be better if I went to school. I’m not feeling ill.”

“But you are,” the Sheriff insists. His hand cups Derek’s cheek, thumb rubbing over the shell of his ear to tuck some hair behind it. “Stiles, I know I was mad yesterday, but you have to believe that I’m mad at Derek Hale, not you.”

“I want to go to school,” Derek says. He wants away from this man who hates him so single-mindedly. It’s a bit like being in a room with Peter—someone who wants to kill him but doesn’t because it’s not the right time. His skin itches with the feeling, and he tries not to wriggle away from the hug he knows is coming.

When the Sheriff pulls back, his face is still concerned, but there is a light in his eyes that Derek really doesn’t like. “You’ll tell me if someone does something to you that you don’t like?” he asks softly.

“Yeah, of course.” Does the Sheriff think Stiles was…Derek shakes his head to dispel that thought. He’ll ask Stiles himself to be certain. He knows he can recognize the signs of unwanted touches. “I’ll just get ready for school now?” He jerks his thumb at the hallway and the Sheriff laughs a little hollowly.

“Yeah. Meet you downstairs. I’m still driving you to school.”

“Fine. I think I’ll get Scott to drive me back. Maybe we’re not as bad off as I’d thought.”

“Take your shower, Stiles. I’ll have something for you to eat when you get out.” He collects his mug from the desk and ambles away.

As soon as he’s downstairs, Stiles tumbles out of the closet. “I sent Scott a text to meet me here,” he says, throwing something at Derek’s chest. It’s Stiles’ phone.

“Does he know anything about this?” Derek asks. Before Stiles can answer, the window slides open and Scott climbs in. he double takes at the both of them, grinning at something only he can see or hear.

“So, Stiles,” he says, staring at Stiles. Derek looks down at himself and then back at Scott. Scott grins knowingly at him, winking even.

“So what?”Stiles mutters.

“You’re going to have to get dressed before you go out in public.”

“I am dressed,” Stiles grumbles, and yes he is. But, he’s also in the rattiest things Derek owns. Things no one would catch him dead in because they’re sleepwear. Fuzzy pajama pants and a thin tank top with a few holes near the collar. Derek sighs and points at Stiles’ dresser. There were a few shirts that fit him last time, but the pants are hopeless.

Stiles digs through angrily, tossing shirts hither and thither. Derek grunts at no one and announces his plan to shower. He grabs a discarded shirt and some jeans hanging over the back of the swivel chair.

He finds a towel on the inside of the door and leaves Stiles and Scott to it. Right before he closes the door, he hears Stiles say, “Dude, none of my clothes fit me.”

Scott’s response is quick and filled with laughter, “So go wear Derek’s.”

Derek takes a five-minute shower. When he gets back to the room, Stiles is nowhere in sight and Scott is sitting at the desk, cramming papers and books into Stiles’ backpack. He tosses it to Derek when he notices him.

“Come on, we’ve gotta go now or we’ll be late.” Derek risks a glance at the clock when he grabs the piece of paper with Stiles’ schedule on it. It’s 7:30. Yeah, they’re going to be late.

He runs down the stairs, trailing Scott and flying past the Sheriff, heading for Scott’s bike parked by the curb. Scott’s already reached it, helmet on, another held out to him.

“Stiles!” the Sheriff yells, and Derek turns back. “You didn’t eat breakfast.”

“No time,” he says, but the Sheriff catches up to him and hands him a plastic box with a handle.

“There’s a sandwich in there. Make sure you eat.” He eyes Derek critically. “You’re not sleeping right and you’re getting a bit thin for my liking.”

“What are you, the witch in _Hansel and Gretel_?” Derek asks before he can stop himself. He winces but the Sheriff just chuckles.

“You’d better fatten right up,” he quips, punching Derek’s shoulder lightly before pulling him into a quick hug. Why is the Sheriff so tactile, Derek wonders.“Scott!” he calls, and Scott flips up his visor to show he’s heard. “Make sure he comes right back home. And call me if he doesn’t feel well!”

“Sure thing, Sheriff,” Scott calls back cheerfully.

“Love you, Stiles.”

“Love you too,” Derek clenches his teeth around the words, certain that they sound forced. The Sheriff just hugs him again before shoving him toward Scott and his bike.

The helmet smells funny when Derek tugs it on, but then he’s too busy clutching Scott around the waist and trying not to fall off to be too worried about it.

By the time they get to school, Derek’s legs can barely hold him and if he were still a werewolf, the little plastic lunchbox would be crushed. He doesn’t understand why Scott likes the stupid bike so much. Although, they made good time so they have a few minutes to sit on the steps with Lydia, Kira, and two annoying freshmen—one of whom he recognizes as Scott’s beta Liam. Derek eats the sandwich—peanut butter and marshmallow fluff—the Sheriff gave him, more to keep from having to talk to the others than anything. But, he listens in as Scott explains that Stiles isn’t Stiles, he’s Derek.

“That explains why his heartbeat is wrong,” Liam says, leaning over to stare at Derek. He grunts and shifts away, ending up somehow next to Lydia. He offers her a bite of the sandwich and she laughs.

“I think Derek’s going to survive being Stiles,” she says to the others. “I can’t say the same for Stiles.”

“Do you know how to fix it?” he asks and she shakes her head.

“I don’t even know how it happened. Do you?”

It’s his turn to shake his head. “No. I just woke up like this.” He doesn’t want to mention the Spark yet. It’s not even that he’s holding onto that information, it’s that he doesn’t want to be laughed at if he’s wrong.

He finishes the food, stashing the plastic box in his—Stiles’—backpack. “Class?” He jerks his thumb at the double doors leading into the building. Lydia jumps to her feet and pulls him up. She digs in his pocket while he frowns at her. Then she unfolds the schedule Stiles wrote.

“So, you share first period with Scott, Kira, and me. Second, third, and fourth alone. Fifth is split in two and you have lunch with us but you’re alone otherwise. Sixth and seventh are both with me. Watch out for Perez—he’s got it out for Stiles this semester.”

“Okay,” he says simply. She hands him back the schedule and he refolds it sticking it in his pocket. “So, Stiles didn’t give me the combination to his locker.”

“You’ve got all the books for the classes in there,” Scott says, tugging at a strap of the backpack. “Now, come on, before we’re late.”

Liam and the other kid skip away while Lydia clamps her hand on Derek’s and all but drags him to first period. The teacher, Mr. Yukimura, glances at their hands before giving them a subtle shake of his head.

They drop hands when Lydia shoves him into a seat next to a glaring girl while taking the seat on his other side. Scott slips into the seat behind him. Kira sits behind Lydia. She’s been quiet, and it’s ratherreassuring for Derek.

“What the hell, Martin?” the glaring girl snarls, and Derek whips his head around to stare at her. Her eyes are glowing blue. There’s another werewolf in town? And, from the looks of it, she’s about to lose control. Derek peeks over his shoulder to find Scott staring intensely at the girl.

“Relax, Malia,” Lydia says with a bored tone. “I’m not trying to steal your boyfriend.”

The girl, Malia, doesn’t relax. In fact, she bristles further. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just the person I’d kill last if I had to kill him at all.”

Mr. Yukimura clears his throat a scant few seconds before the bell rings. “Now, class,” he says, clapping his hands and smiling jovially. Derek tunes him out in favor of reading the textbook. He glances at the board every so often, finding that Mr. Yukimura isn’t covering anything he doesn’t already know.

“Also,” Malia says suddenly, “he’s the person I want to fuck.”

The whole room goes silent. Derek can feel his ears turning hot and he refuses to look up from the book.

“Malia Tate,” Mr. Yukimura says, shocked, “I think you need to report to the office.”

“Fine,” she huffs, gathering her books and stomping out into the hallway.

“Kira, please escort Ms. Tate to the office.” Mr. Yukimura hands Kira a piece of paper that he scribbles something onto. “Thank you. Now, where were we?”

Derek can’t concentrate on anything for the rest of class.

He walks very quickly from the room, noting that Scott is following him.

“I have the class next door,” he says quickly, like he’s afraid Derek’s going to say something to make him go away. Instead, Derek turns to him, holding out a hand so he stops too.

“I’m not good at this,” he says. Scott nods like he gets it, but he really doesn’t. “I’m not good with the teen drama or whatever. I’m not good with most subjects. It’s been too long since I was in high school. I don’t think I can deal with it.”

Scott nods again. “Do you want me to call the Sheriff, have him come get you?”

Derek debates that. Stay here where no one—almost no one—knows him or go back to Stiles’ house where his father will hug him and talk to him.

“Here. I’ll stay here,” he says sharply. Scott looks a little pleased.

“Lydia and I took bets on how long you’ll last,” he explains. Derek stares at him incredulously. “Oh, don’t worry, we took bets on Stiles too. So far, you’re doing okay.”

“What happens if I have more classes with Malia?”

Scott’s eyes go soft. He has that same look in his eyes the Sheriff did earlier. Derek hates it from him too. “If Malia bothers you, let me know. I’m her alpha. She has to listen to me.”

“She’s really close to losing control,” he says, letting Scott steer him towards the classrooms they need.

“Yeah, I know. We’re working on it. Stiles and me.”

“Does Stiles return her affections?” If Scott says yes, Derek decides that he won’t shy away from Malia if she approaches again, but he won’t let her do anything to Stiles’ body. Not while he’s in control of it.

“I’m not sure,” Scott says slowly. “Sometimes it seems like it, but then he goes off on tangents of not liking _how_ she goes about relationships.”

Scott glances at a clock hanging between the two doors, eyes widening almost comically as he shoves Derek into the left room and runs into the right one. Right as the bell rings, Derek slides into an open seat near the front of the room, trying hard to ignore the stares of the other students. He wants lunch to come quickly if only so he can see Lydia and Scott again. They, at least, do not make him feel awkward and wrong, even though he really is right now.

“Mr. Stilinski,” the teacher says, leaning down to press his palms on Derek’s desk. He studies the man’s face, wondering if he still had his werewolf nose, would the man smell as nervous as he looks confident. “You aren’t in your assigned seat.”

“I know,” Derek says, thinking fast, “but I haven’t been feeling the greatest. If I need to make a speedy exit, it’d be better to be closer to the door, wouldn’t it?” The man rears back as if Derek’s stung him.

“If you were ill,” he grouses, voice nasally, like he’s holding his breath, “you shouldn’t have come to class.”

“And miss your scintillating discussions?” Derek grins. The man just glares at him. Then he ignores Derek in favor of directing the class to take out their worksheets from yesterday. A quick peek at the schedule reveals that this is the Perez teacher Lydia warned him about.

Great.

Another asshole who thinks just because he’s a teacher he’s better than his students. Well, if Stiles doesn’t put him in his place normally, Derek might just have to take up the mantle. He’s still smarting from his fifth grade teacher calling him stupid in front of the whole school at Talent Night.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Perez snaps, and Derek thinks he must have been doing it for a while, judging the red-faced glare he’s getting.

“Sir?” he says, as dismissive as he can.

“I asked a question. What’s the answer?”

Derek glances around the room, stalling.Finally, he says, “I really don’t care.”

Perez marches back to his desk where he digs around for a bit before coming up with a pad similar to the one from Mr. Yukimura’s class. Derek knows it’s coming and he grins at the teacher again just to see him stumble a bit before he slaps a detention slip onto the desk in front of him.

“Thank you,” Derek says with his dismissive tone again.

Perez doesn’t call on him for the rest of class time.

~ * ~

Periods three and four pass uneventfully. Derek remembers enough physics and pre-calc from his own high school days to puzzle out Stiles’ homework sheets, and he fills them out before the bell rings to dismiss the students each time.

When he gets to Spanish IV, he finds a pretty, young woman handing out flyers.

“Señor Stilinski,” she says, affecting a soft accent and a shy smile. She holds out one of the flyers and Derek glances at it. Volunteers for Prom. No thanks. Although, Stiles might like something like this. He tucks it into his backpack and swerves around her to get to a seat. In here, they have the names taped to the fronts of the desks. He finds Stiles’, groaning internally at the ‘Jesus’ on the brightly colored construction paper. Trust Stiles to do something stupid like this.

The class is constructing their own soap opera, and the teacher, Señora Perez, according to the nameplate on her desk, dictates that some girl named Danielle and Señor Jesus portray the leads as they have the best pronunciation.

Derek loves languages. He’s always had a knack for them. That teacher who called him stupid did so because Derek learned Portuguese and spoke it for a week straight with no break for English. She’d felt insulted and had used that to hurt him. She’d been reprimanded after his mom got a hold of the school board.

He wonders if that stunt is what encouraged Cora to seek a pack in South America. She’d been at an influential age and he practiced his pronunciation on her after Laura put him in a headlock and refused to babysit if he spoke to her in his “gibberish” (Mom made her babysit anyway since Peter was off dicking his random hookups at that time and Mom really wanted him to move out).

He spends the first half of period scribbling scripts and having other students read them back to him so he can figure out what sounds best. He glances up, wanting to ask about lunch, remembering that Lydia told him fifth period was two sections interrupted by lunch. The teacher is staring at him, something akin to adoration in her eyes. Derek ducks his head. He doesn’t want the attention. Not again.

“Atención, clase.Es hora para el almuerzoahora.Por favor, alinear y caminar hasta la cafetería. Gracias.”

The students dutifully leave their pens and notebooks where they lay, lining up and marching almost politely down the hall.

“Señor Stilinski,”Señora Perez calls, and Derek freezes, halfway to shoving his notebook and a pen into his backpack.

“¿Sí, Señora?” he says, throat achingly dry. He rubs his sweating palms on his jeans.

“Una palabra, por favor.”

“Sí, Señora.” Derek sinks back into his seat. He grips his backpack tightly. What exactly does she want? Can’t he go to lunch now?

“Tus traducciones se hanhechoaúnmejor. ¿Ha estadopracticando?”

“Sí, Señora. Disfrutohablarespañol.Es para mí un gran placer.”

“Ah,” she sighs. “Tútienepronunciaciónmuybuena.Sigan con el buentrabajo.”

“Muchas gracias, Señora.”

“Despedido, Señor Stilinski.”

He runs from the room. At the cafeteria, he bumps into Scott and Lydia, both of whom look rather relieved to see him.

“Señora Perez wanted to compliment me on my pronunciation,” he explains hurriedly as they jump into line. “Why? She already assigned one of the most important parts of the project to Stiles.”

“Shh,” Lydia hisses in his ear and he shoots her an annoyed glare. “There are people listening.”

“There are not,” Scott retorts. At Lydia’s angered face, he grins sheepishly. “But it might be best to wait until we’re at our table. Fair warning: Malia picked up a detention, but she’s roaming the halls again.”

“That bitch,” Lydia mutters, and Derek has to agree.

“I don’t want to sit next to her,” he says. The line is moving rather quickly for how many students still need food, and Lydia pokes him until he takes a yellow tray while she and Scott both get green. Crinkle cut fries, canned green beans, half a pear. Derek wrinkles his nose at the food, halfway glad he can’t smell it anymore that he already can.

“Hamburger or chicken fingers,” the bored lunch attendant asks before slopping a pile of crispy sorta chicken things onto Derek’s tray. Lydia gets a hamburger despite her insistence that she’s gone vegan. Scott also gets a hamburger.

“Is this some kind of code?” he asks Scott as they choose water or milk. Derek likes whole milk, but they have none so he gets water. Lydia also grabs a bottle of water while Scott takes a pint of chocolate milk. He shakes his tray a little and Scott stares at him, face pinched in confusion.

“The color of the trays, dummy,” Lydia snaps. They pull out their student I.D.s and hand them one at a time to the lunch attendant watching them. Derek digs out Stiles’ from a zippered pouch on the backpack he’s still got slung over his shoulder. “Maybe.Anyway. Let’s sit here.”

Here is with Kira. She grins up at them, knocking shoulders with Scott when he sits beside her.

Malia joins them shortly after, plopping onto the seat next to Derek. He shies away but lets her take one of the chicken things. “Don’t get me in trouble again,” she snaps, pressing a kiss to the side of his face.As if that’s supposed to make it better.

“Can you please not touch me,” he says. “You won’t get in trouble if you keep to yourself.” She steals the rest of his tray as retaliation and he tugs it back. “Get your own food, if you’re so damn hungry.”

She smacks the back of his head and he turns to her, hand up, palm facing her. “Don’t touch me,” he says. He lowers his hand, grabs his tray, and shuffles to the other side of the table, taking the seat next to Lydia. Malia glares at him before stealing food off Scott’s tray.

“Stiles is right,” Scott says, covering his tray and shooting Malia a look daring her to steal more. “If you’re hungry, you should get your own tray.”

Malia cocks her head, listening, and Derek starts worrying. Liam was able to tell he wasn’t Stiles just from the sound of his heartbeat. Can Malia do the same thing? Does she know Stiles well enough for that?

“You’re not Stiles,” she confirms, teeth suddenly sharp, and Derek jerks back so he can run away unhindered if she tries to attack him. Before she can do more than slam her hands on the table and stand up, Scott grabs her shoulder and squeezes, pressing her back into her seat.

“No, he isn’t,” Lydia says calmly. “Somehow Derek and Stiles switched bodies. We’ll be working towards resolving this thing after class. So, for now, I suggest you leave Stiles alone.”

“But he’s not Stiles.”

“Exactly,” Kira says. “How would you feel if you weren’t in your body and Stiles still showed it affection?”

“Doesn’t bother me.” Malia shrugs.

“It should!”

Scott pats Kira’s arm. “It’s okay. We don’t need Malia to understand right now. All we need, Malia, is for you to promise to leave Derek-in-Stiles’-body alone.”

Malia shrugs again. “If he’s Derek, does that mean Stiles is in Derek’s body?”

“Yeah.” Scott nods. “Look, I’m supposed to take Derek back to Stiles’ house after school. The Sheriff wants him home right after school.”

“What about lacrosse practice?” Kira asks. “I mean, Stiles _is_ on the team.”

“So am I,” Scott says. “I’ll take him back after practice.” He looks to Lydia, and she nods.

“I’ll find Stiles after school and take him to Deaton’s. Maybe he knows something.”

“What do I do?” Kira asks. “I can’t just sit around and not be a part of this.”

“Maybe you can see if your mom knows about something like this,” Lydia suggests. “For now, let’s just get through the rest of the school day.”

“Thanks, Lydia,” Scott says. He gives Derek a look, and Derek mumbles his thanks too.

Lydia smiles sadly. “Don’t thank me quite yet. We’ve still got two and a half classes left.”

“I’m not so sure I should stay at school in Stiles’ place,” Derek confesses. “It’s been a long time since I was a student. I’m not sure I—”

“You’re doing fine,” Scott interrupts him. “Now hurry up and eat or go back to Spanish hungry. We’re about to be dismissed.”

Hungry, Derek decides, mostly because he’s already eaten the pear and salt-lacking fries. He doesn’t like canned green beans—a quick test proves Stiles’ tongue doesn’t either—and Malia only stole the chicken.

He follows Lydia when she takes her tray to a window on the other side from where they entered the food line. Scott and Kira embrace before they head back to whatever they have, and Lydia eyes him critically before going into the classroom next to the Spanish room.

Señora Perez seems to have cooled from the almost naïve persona she had before lunch.

She doesn’t say anything when she hands out a test. Several students groan but Derek digs out a pencil and starts working when she points at the clock. Her change in demeanor is even more puzzling to Derek when she hands him a detention slip and sends him to the office.

The secretary waves him in, and he sits politely on the edge of the left-hand chair in front of the principal’s desk.

“Mr. Stilinski,” the man says, leaning back and making a steeple with his fingers. Derek wants to tell him he’s acting like a bad eighties film villain but bites his tongue to stifle an unbidden laugh instead. “I’ve been hearing troubling things about you today.”

“Is that so?” Derek smirks, amused. He pulls out the two detention slips and lays them on the desk, smoothing out the wrinkles and folds. “Mr. Perez was agitated and took it out on me,” he says, tapping the first slip. “I don’t even know why Señora Perez gave me this one.”

The principal sits forward and scoops up both papers. “I see,” he says. “Well, we’ll just have to call your father then, won’t we?”

“Why? Is that protocol?”

“Yes, it is. Problem with that, Mr. Stilinski?”

Derek droops. He doesn’t need to be in more trouble with the Sheriff. “No, actually. I’ll just wait, quietly, then.”

His stomach clenches while the principal sends him to sit in the chairs in front of his office, the secretary shooting suspicious glances at him. He’s missing gym with Lydia. It would be comforting to have a friend right now. All he’s sure of is that the Sheriff will be disappointed in him, disappointed in _Stiles_.

The Sheriff shows up halfway through last period, shooting Derek a worried glance as he goes into the principal’s office alone. His meeting is quick. When he comes out again, his worried face has morphed into one of thunderous rage. Derek swallows hard.

“A two-day suspension, Stiles,” he hisses, grabbing Derek’s arm and hauling him upright. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“What did I do?” Derek asks. “Please enlighten me.”

The Sheriff shoves him against the wall and pins him with an arm across his chest. “Malia Tate says you sexually assaulted her in class this morning. You’re damn lucky the school is giving you a two-day suspension while they investigate her claim. If they determine you didin fact assault her, then you’ll be expelled.”

Derek blinks back sudden tears, clutching at the Sheriff’s arm. “She what? I didn’t do anythingto her! If anything, she assaulted me. She—”

“Shut up, Stiles. We’ll talk about this at home. Depending on what the school determines, I might have to turn you in.”

“What?!”

“Are you acting out because of Derek Hale? Is he doing something to you?”

Derek chokes, sputtering angrily while the Sheriff presses harder. “I hate you,” he hisses. “I hate you so fucking much!”

He throws off the Sheriff’s arm and stomps outside. Shit, he thinks, he’d forgot Scott gave him a ride today, and the way Stiles’ body feels, he’s not up for walking all the way home. Wherever home is supposed to be.

Briefly, he entertains the idea of hotwiring a vehicle, possibly even Scott’s damn bike, but a heavy hand drops onto his shoulder and squeezes.

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” the Sheriff says, and Derek growls low in his throat. It’s not as menacing as it would have been were he in his own body.“I didn’t want the school to use anything you said against you.”

Derek wheels on him, shoving at him with both hands. “You didn’t give me a chance to defend myself!” he snarls. “You didn’t _listen_ to me.”

“And I said I was sorry,” the Sheriff repeats. His eyes harden and he reaches out to grab Derek’s shoulder again.“Malia’s claim is a very serious one, and I’m not sure you’re taking it as such.”

“I hate you,” Derek repeats, quieter. “Not everything wrong with my life is my—Derek’s fault. Why do you always assume it is?”

“Hey, loser!” someone shouts, and both Derek and the Sheriff turn to stare at a Toyota idling by the curb. Stiles-in-Derek’s body grins at them from the driver’s seat, waving at Derek through the open passenger window. “Get in,” he says, “we’re going shopping!”

“Fuck you,” Derek says back. “And give me back my body!”

“Stiles?” the Sheriff says. His hand on Derek’s shoulder tightens, and Derek shrugs him off, running down the steps toward where Stiles is still grinning with his body. “Stiles!”

Derek hits the door and wrenches it open, climbing inside and slamming it shut. The Sheriff is already following when Stiles steps on the gas and the car jerks away from the curb.

“I fucking hate you,” Derek says, tugging at the seatbelt until he can click it on.

“That’s just your teenage angst talking,” Stiles replies, taking a hard left.

“No, it’s your teenage angst,” Derek retorts. “Give me back my fucking body! I hate you and I hate your dad and I hate your girlfriend. You know, she said I was sexually assaulting her when she was sexually assaulting me.”

“Shit,” Stiles whistles, “really? Dude, I’m sorry.” He reaches out to flick at Derek’s ear, and he snaps his teeth at him.

“I hate you,” he repeats while Stiles laughs. The laugh isn’t any better than the smile. At least Stiles seems to have found some of Derek’s clothes since he’s wearing a t-shirt Derek’s positive he’s had forever and those jeans Laura threatened to abandon in a dumpster if Derek wore them ever again. The holes in the knee and the worn crotch might have something to do with that.

“You love me,” Stiles sing-songs, flicking at Derek’s ear again. “Just you wait, we’re going to Deaton’s to see if he knows anything and then we’re getting ice cream so you can vent all that teenage angst you’re trying to bottle up.”

“What happened to having a bad day?” Derek demands. “I thought you were mad that you had to be me.”

Stiles shrugs, ignoring him in favor of studying the road. “I guess I got over it,” he finally says when he pulls into the veterinary office’s parking lot. He shifts to park and shuts off the engine, pulling out the keys and climbing out. Derek hesitates for a brief moment before following.

“I still hate you,” he says, just to be contrary, and Stiles laughs again.

“I know you do.”

Deaton glances up from paperwork when they enter the building. Derek crosses his arms and stares him down while Stiles shifts from foot to foot and whistles off tune.

“Stiles, Derek,” Deaton says, voice steady. Derek wonders if he had his own body back if he’d hear any confusion in it. “What can I do for you?”

“You can help us figure out how we switched bodies,” Stiles says. Deaton doesn’t look impressed.

“Seriously,” Stiles continues. “I’m stuck in this sourwolf’s body. Get me out of here!” He turns and slams his hand against Derek’s chest and Derek stumbles backwards, clutching at the bloom of pain in his breastbone.

“What the fuck!” he snarls. Deaton blinks and flips up the counter, gripping Derek’s shoulder and dragging him across the open space before closing it in Stiles’ face.

“If you are unable to control yourself, Derek, you can leave,” he says.

“I’m Derek,” Derek says, still rubbing at his chest. “Why’d you hit me, man?”

Deaton blinks again.

“Are you positive you’ve switched bodies?” he asks after a beat of silence. Derek nods. “I am going to have to test that, you know.”

“So do it,” Stiles says. He sets his hands above the counter, holding them still even as they tremble and his claws extend. “I can’t wait to have my body back.”

“I thought you got over it,” Derek says, mirroring Stiles and putting his hands on the counter. He flexes his human fingers in wonder, tracing the grain of the wood.

“I lied,” Stiles says, and quicker than Derek can pull back, he stabs the claws of his left hand through Derek’s right hand. Derek cries out in pain.

Next to him, Deaton pulls a sprig of wolf’s bane from his coat pocket and waves it under Stiles’ nose to make him release Derek. Then he jerks Derek into the backroom by his collar.

“Did you manage to keep Stiles’ natural curiosity, or are you really that stupid?”

Derek slumps into the chair Deaton pushes him at, holding out his hand so Deaton can clean the puncture wounds and wrap them.

“I’ve never been able to touch mountain ash before,” he mumbles. “I just wanted to see what it was like.”

Deaton raises an eyebrow. “And was it what you expected?”

Derek frowns at him. “Do you hate me?”

“No.” Deaton doesn’t say anything else; he just throws a wool blanket at Derek and starts digging through a cupboard he has to unlock with a key hanging on a leather thong around his neck. Derek watches him silently, holding the blanket, wondering what Stiles is doing on the other side of the counter. He knows he’d be pacing, trying to figure out why his body lost control.

Instead, he’s half curled in the chair, feeling impotent and human while Deaton sorts through colored binders filled with photocopied texts. Derek recognizes the archaic Latin Lydia reads amongst the Greek and less archaic Latin manuscripts. His fingers itch to take one and study it.

Finally, Deaton seems to find what he’s looking for in an even more modernized Latin-filled book. He sets it on the operating table and flips it open to a page filled with diagrams of human bodies.

“This,” he taps one of the pictures, a body on its knees, arms above its head. “Do you know this one?”

Derek shakes his head, thinking of the Spark and the gym again. She’d bumped into him, apologized, said, “Let me fix that for you,” and touched his head. She didn’t contort into any shapes or whisper any incantations. In fact, she didn’t do anything except touch him.

Hell, Kate did more when she dragged him down to Mexico.

Derek shudders as he thinks of her changed face, her fangs, and her enforcers. Berserkers.Remembers her hands, hot and quick.Claws dragging down his chest, under his jeans.

He whimpers quietly, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them.

Deaton watches him, face impassive.

Embarrassed, Derek rubs a hand over his face, wiping away tears and sniffling a little. “Do you have a bathroom?” he asks thickly. Deaton simply points to the front room.

Stiles is sitting in one of the chairs, an ankle balanced on his knee as he flips through an old magazine. He glances up when Derek opens the counter and closes it behind him.

“Not going to attack me?” Derek asks when Stiles remains sitting.

“No,” Stiles says. “You’ve got enough on your plate right now.” He pointedly sniffs the air, tongue poking out. “Dude, misery loves company, but don’t beat yourself up about something you can’t change.”

Angry and hurt, Derek ignores him, letting the bathroom door slam shut. All he wants to do, aside from get his body back, is curl up in his bed and cry. He knows it’s not productive and won’t help things, but goddamn it, doesn’t he deserve to do what he wants for a change?

He pisses quickly, flushing the toilet and washing his hands before he goes back to the waiting room. He finds Lydia and Scott sitting on either side of Stiles and Liam, the beta, sitting on the coffee table.

“So,” Stiles says, grinning, “let’s get this party started.”

“Please stop smiling,” Scott says tightly. He points at Derek. “Get back behind the counter.”

“Why?” Derek fingers the wet bandages wrapped around his hand, picking at the peeling edge of the tape. “Did Deaton figure something out?”

“No, dude,” Stiles says. “I just told Scott my control’s all but gone, and right now there’s nothing I’d like more than to rip you to pieces.”

Derek glares at him. “You remember it’s your body you’d be hurting, right?”

Stiles shrugs, tossing the magazine at Liam, who catches it. He rolls his shoulders and neck, snapping his—Derek’s—fangs menacingly. “Don’t care. You’d be dead, and I’d get to keep your body. Fair price, don’t you think?”

Derek runs.

He makes it to the counter before Stiles is on him, slamming him into it and hiking him up by the back of his pants. Claws tear through the denim, and Derek feels blood dripping down his legs. He kicks frantically, struggling over the counter while Liam and Scott work to pull Stiles back. Lydia, calm, collected, hops onto the counter and swings her legs over. When Stiles lunges again, reaching for her skirt, she kicks him solidly in the balls.

He goes down, and Derek would wince in sympathy—it’s his body, after all—but he knows a nut-shot only buys them a couple minutes.

Lydia opens the counter, and Scott and Liam duck through before she drops it back into place. Stiles stands up, dusting off his pants and hands. He chuckles as he scrapes his claws over the wood, unable to fully touch it. With his brow furrowed like that, wide grin in place, he reminds Derek of Peter at his worst. It’s disappointing to see so much madness in himself.

“Yeah, hide behind your little barrier,” Stiles taunts. “I’ll be waiting. Don’t you worry, Derek. I’m coming for you. What I’m going to do to you will make Kate seem like a sweet dream.”

Lydia shoves him into the back room where Scott hoists him onto the cleared table at a look from Deaton.

“You really need to reign in your astounding ability for sheer incompetency, Derek,” Deaton says. Derek flips him off.

“Really?” Lydia snaps suddenly. “Stiles is the one losing control and attacking Derek and you’re berating Derek? Remind me why we come to you for advice?”

She snatches up the archaic Latin text and settles into the chair Derek had used previously. She tosses the blanket to Liam and opens the book to a page that looks remarkably like Kate’s changed form. Derek suppresses a shudder, quickly averting his eyes.

Scott sets a hand on his shoulder, and he jumps.

“It’s okay,” he says, eyes filled with concern. “She can’t hurt you in here.”

“Derek, what did Kate do to you?”

Derek kicks at Deaton, who really, aside from insulting him, is just trying to remove his pants so he can bandage these new wounds. Deaton dodges it easily and takes revenge by pouring some saline mixture over his legs to clean off the blood.

Lydia huffs loudly. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Dr. Deaton,” she says. “Liam, go watch the door. Sheriff Stilinski is supposed to be here soon.”

Liam rolls his eyes but stays silent, heading to the front. He leaves the blanket by the end of the table. Scott pats Derek’s knee, and he watches his veins turn black as he draws away pain.

“If you need to talk,” he says quietly, rubbing a circle with his thumb, “we’re all here for you.”

Derek shakes his head, pinning Scott with as severe a glare as Stiles’ eyes are capable—which is much less sharp than he’d like. “What did you think Kate did to me? She drugged me a-and _raped_ me. And I don’t know why Stiles is going batshit crazy. I don’t. I really don’t.”

He’s horrified to find himself tearing up again. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, letting Scott keep drawing his pain while Deaton finishes covering his wounds.

“Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?” the Sheriff says, and everyone turns to him.

“Sit down, Sheriff,” Lydia says, waving at the chairs near her. “Please. It’s a long story.”

“Derek?” the Sheriff says quietly, eying Derek as he takes a seat, and Derek tilts his head. “Are you okay, son?”

“No,” Liam answers instead. Derek just nods and lays back. He wants this day over.

In fact, as long as Stiles is stuck on the other side of that barrier and everyone else, meaning Lydia, will explain the situation to the Sheriff, Derek decides a nap is in order. Scott keeps a hand on his knee and drapes the wool blanket over him.

He blinks up at the ceiling, counting the tiles and drifting off. It’s the happiest he’s been since waking up as 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones. And organs.And hair. And. And. Gone. Asleep.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***translations*** (at least, as best as I can do with my rudimentary understanding of Spanish)
> 
> Señora Perez: “Attention, class. It’s time for lunch now. Please line up and walk to the cafeteria. Thank you.”
> 
> SP: “A word, please.”
> 
> SP: “Your translations have become even better. Have you been practicing?”
> 
> Derek: “I enjoy speaking Spanish. It gives me great pleasure.”
> 
> SP: “You have very good pronunciation. Keep up the good work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Discussion of rape fantasy (Stiles projecting on Derek). Starts at _"Stiles?" the Sheriff says, sharply._ and ends at _“For what it’s worth,” Stiles says, “I’m sorry you found out this way.”_. See ends notes for more of explanation.

~ * ~

Derek wakes up when Scott and Liam put him in Stiles’ bed.

He sits up, running hands through his hair and over his face, and staring at them while they share silent glances with each other.

“So,” Liam finally says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, “Mason wants me to study with him.”

“Go,” Scott says. He pats Liam on the back and shuts the door after he’s left. Then he turns back to Derek and sits on the bed next to him. “Well,” he finally says, looking anywhere but at Derek.

“Well what?” Derek demands. “Where’s the Sheriff? I thought he’d be here?”

“Uh,” Scott says with his usual eloquence, “he’s watching Stiles.”

“So why isn’t Stiles here?”

Scott shrugs. “Familiarity?” Derek glares at him. He sighs. “Fine. Lydia has this theory that we can get you switched back if we can get you to act like Stiles and Stiles to act like you. First, though, they have to calm Stiles down, and that’s not happening with you anywhere near him.”

“So, I still have to go to school?”

Scott blinks at him. “ _That’s_ what you get?” he squeaks angrily. “Not the fact that you have to be Stiles or Stiles has to be you or even that Stiles wants to kill you with your own body but the fact that you have to go to _school_?!”

Derek smirks as he shrugs. “Maybe I already know how to be like Stiles.” He lets the smile drop off his face. “But, I don’t want to be trapped at school.” He doesn’t mention Malia, but Scott sniffs as delicately as he can (which is to say not at all) and his face falls into a sad mask.

“Dude, I’m sorry.” He reaches out to pat at Derek’s arm, and Derek lets him, thinks that Stiles would probably let him. “I’m sorry about Kate too. I meant what I said about being available if you need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Derek says. Scott doesn’t say anything, just drops his hand onto Derek’s and pries it off his knee. He straightens each finger and traces the human-blunt fingernails.

“It’ll be okay. It will.”

The door bangs open, and Derek jumps. It’s only Lydia, hands on hips, lips pursed.

“Hey.” She smiles sharply. Scott squeezes Derek’s hand and lets go to stand up. “So, I’ve got to ask, did your anchor change at all?”

Derek nods.

“Great. That might help explain why Stiles is being so cantankerous.”

“Wait,” Scott interrupts, “you changed your anchor? When?”

“I don’t know. After traveling with Cora for a bit, I think.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us?” Scott gestures at him wildly, hands passing dangerously close to his face.

Derek bristles at the accusation, snapping completely human teeth onto Scott’s flailing hand.

Scott howls, more from shock than pain, Derek thinks, and his other hand smashes into Derek’s mouth, splitting his lip.

Derek’s eyes water and he covers his mouth while Scott recoils, looking horrified.

“Scott!” Lydia hisses. “Not everything in Derek’s life revolves around you. I notice you never updated him on _your_ changed anchor.”

“I’m sorry,” Scott says, and Derek waves him away.

“Just get out.” Lydia shoves Scott away while she digs through the shelves behind the bed to find a mostly empty box of tissues. “And he said he didn’t have any,” she says to herself, pulling a few sheets free and passing them to Derek.

Scott doesn’t move from the doorway, shooting apologetic looks into the room while Lydia works patiently to apply something waxy-feeling to Derek’s lip. “I really am sorry,” he tries again, and Lydia shoos him away again. This time he leaves.

“So,” she says when the door falls shut behind Scott, “what’s your anchor now?”

“It’s hope,” he says. “The way everything happened but it couldn’t keep your pack down, that inspired hope, and it made me see that maybe my anger was more trouble than it was worth.”

Lydia snorts, dropping onto the bed and wrapping an arm around him. “You were inspired by a bunch of teenagers,” she says.

He nods. “Apparently, the things that happened to me stagnated my development,” he says seriously. “I’ve been talking to a therapist for a while. It’s been helpful.”

“I know Scott told you we’re all here for you, if you want or need to talk,” she says. She kicks her legs out, staring down at them and ignoring where her hand is curled around his back. She squeezes briefly before leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “We really are. I promise. You’re not just the older guy we all aspire to hang out with—you’re a person whose wants and desires deserve to be taken into account.”

He sighs before shrugging off her hand. “Yeah, I know. It just doesn’t feel like it all the time. I get the feeling that you’re all being very kind by not saying this is my fault, like everything else was too.”

“It’s not,” she says, sharply. “Let’s get some ice for that lip.”

Off she flounces, running down the stairs ahead of him. He wonders, though, if she truly means it when she says they think of him as a real person.

He wonders if he thinks of himself as a real person, too.

By the time he gets downstairs, he finds her standing in the kitchen with a Ziploc bag half-full of ice cubes.

“I’m driving,” she says, ushering him out the door toward her tiny little Volkswagen. He climbs into the passenger seat, buckling the seatbelt.

Lydia adjusts all her mirrors and reapplies her lipstick.

Derek stares at her.

“What?” she says before grinning at him and turning the key in the ignition. “Fine! We’re going.”

He grunts, leaning his head against the window and watching the scenery pass. He’s not surprised at all when they pull up to his loft. What’s more surprising is, when they climb up the stairs and open the door, they find Stiles trapped in a mountain ash circle. Derek stares at the Sheriff sitting on his couch and at Stiles glaring from a stool in the exact center of the large circle.

He’s even less surprised to see Scott sitting next to the Sheriff.

Scott winces when he sees Derek, and next to him, the Sheriff goes stiff.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, moving faster than Derek thought possible for an almost-past middle-aged man with heart trouble. He grabs Derek’s chin and angles his head this way and that, examining the busted lip.

“Lydia?”

“Scott hit him,” Stiles calls helpfully, ugly smile in place when Derek flips him off.

“It was an accident,” he tells the Sheriff. “I provoked him.”

“How?”

“I bit him.”

“Attaboy, Derek!” Stiles applauds loudly. Abruptly, he stands, sending the stool toppling backwards. “That’s my sourwolf!”

Thankfully, the ash barrier is large enough that the stool comes nowhere close to breaking it, although everyone in the room, including Derek, holds their breath until the stool stops moving.

“Can an inanimate object break an ash line?” Derek wonders out loud, ignoring the shocked glare Scott sends him.

“Probably not?” the Sheriff says, while Lydia nods.

“I’d think it would, depending if the person who put it down believed that the stool disrupted it enough to break it.”

“Good thing Mason put it down then, eh?” Scott laughs weakly.

“Actually,” Stiles says, “if one person believes that it could fall, it’ll fall. Regardless of the Spark that put it there.”

“Stiles, what are you using as an anchor?” Derek asks. He glances at Lydia and sees her nodding.

“Dude, what do you think I’m using?” Stiles lunges at the barrier, claws out, fangs bared. Derek resolutely does not take a step back.

“I think you’re using anger.”

“Bravo.” Stiles applauds again. “Give the boy a cookie!”

“Well, anger isn’t my anchor, so it’s not going to help you.” Derek goes to the kitchen and starts digging in his fridge for something to do. Stiles snorts and follows him as far as the circle will let him.

“Come on, don’t be a hoarder,” he says. “Give me the goods!”

“Hope.”

It’s Lydia that says it.

She stares down Stiles, hands on her hips, head up, eyes narrowed. “Derek’s new anchor is hope.”

“Hope?” Stiles spits. He uprights the stool and sinks onto it again. “Really, Derek? You’re so pathetic you couldn’t stay angry?”

Derek pulls out of the fridge, an orange in hand. He contemplates chucking it at Stiles, but he doesn’t want to accidentally break the circle. Lydia notices him and stomps her foot for Stiles’ attention.

“Hey,” she says, “Derek’s stronger than you’re giving him credit for.”

“Oh, defending the Hales now are we, Miss Martin?” Stiles smirks. He waits a beat before blinking, as if he’s shaking something off. “So, what, I’m supposed to dredge up all the hope I don’t have and see if it works to get my temper in control?” He swivels to face Derek.“Where do you get your hope from?”

Derek shrugs and begins peeling the orange, wincing when the thick skin gets under his nails and hurts him. “From things,” he mumbles. Mostly from the teenagers who won’t quit, even when they probably should. “Cora’s alive. So are the rest of us.” He shrugs again, biting into a freed slice. He pretends the sting of the juice in his wounded lip doesn’t bother him, and just lets it burst over his tongue while he watches Stiles watching him.

“Hope,” Stiles says, like a curse. “Fucking pathetic.” He knocks the stool over again, probably just to watch everyone freak out about it.

“Fucking hope,” Derek says, to be contrary, but it gets Stiles to grin. He rights the stool again and sits on it, crossing his arms and glaring at the orange Derek is still eating.

“So, think happy thoughts.”

“Yes, if you want to fly.”

Stiles snorts. “Didn’t peg you as a _Peter Pan_ fan,” he says.

“My cousin was. She made me read the book every night for a month when she stayed with us.” He doesn’t mention she’d been with them the night of the fire. She and her three sisters. All dead. He stares down at where he’s shredding the remainder of the orange, appetite completely gone. He drops it on the floor and scrubs his sticky hands on his jeans. Stiles frowns at him but doesn’t say anything.

“When I need my anchor, I think of giving up the alpha spark for Cora. I think of all the times something tried to knock us down and we still got back up again.”

“And, what, that’s supposed to work for me?”

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know what works for you. That’s what you need to find. It’s just, if you have to act like me, maybe try how I reach my anchor to see if it helps you.”

“You want me to use fucking events that mean nothing to me, gee you’re so smart. Fuck you!”

Derek rubs at his lip. “Maybe you can find some events that make you feel hopeful?” he suggests. “Also, I’m going to delete that stupid picture you took of me. You had no right.”

Stiles grins wolfishly. “Go ahead. I’ve got it memorized anyway.”

“Stiles?” the Sheriff says, sharply. He’s looking at Derek, and Derek shrugs at him. “Why did you take that picture?”

“Spank bank,” Stiles says, nonchalantly. Seemingly bored, he grows a single claw and uses it to clean under his human fingernails. “Yes, Dad, I jerk off to thoughts of naked Derek Hale. I actually jerk off thinking about making him take my cock, making him swallow me to the root while I fuck his throat. Then, I move to his ass. No lube except for his spit.” He blinks, and Derek thinks he sees a shimmer of tears in his eyes.

The Sheriff looks puzzled. “You get off thinking about raping Derek?” he asks, disgust coloring his tone.

Stiles nods. “It’s one of many things that help me sleep at night. I mean, if I’m hurting him, and let’s face it, he can take it, then I’m not hurting someone else. Someone more important.”

“You want to hurt me?” Derek asks. He feels breathless, like he’s having another panic attack. He stumbles toward the couch, aware, barely, of Scott hovering behind him. He sits, putting his head between his knees. Stiles wants to hurt him, to rape him, like Kate? Just because he’s not—what did Stiles say?—important enough?

“For what it’s worth,” Stiles says, “I’m sorry you found out this way.”

“Just shut up, Stiles,” Lydia snaps. She kneels in front of Derek and grips his hands. “It’s okay, just breathe.”

“Don’t kiss me,” Derek whispers, and Lydia reels back, a look of surprise on her face. “Stiles kissed me when I had a panic attack earlier.”

“I kissed him once too,” she says. “Later, I read that was one of the worst things I could have done.” She narrows her eyes and shoots a glare at Stiles. “I would apologize, but he needs to straighten up first.”

“As long as you do,” Derek murmurs. He glances at Stiles. “Do you think he would ever act on his impulse?” he asks. “He did already take a picture of me. It’s on his phone.” He fumbles it from his pocket, handing it to Lydia because he doesn’t know Stiles’ unlock code.

“Do you want me to delete it?” He nods.

She hands the phone back when she’s done.

“You’d better not be messing up my shit,” Stiles calls, and Derek flips him off.

“Like how it took me crying to get you to promise not to do anything to my body?” Derek shoots back. “Yeah, it’s a picture of me. That’s all I’m doing to your stupid phone.”

“Are you okay?” Lydia asks. “Do you need to speak to someone?”

Derek glances at her, confused. “Who would I speak with?” he asks. “My therapist is in Baltimore.”

“I’m sure we can find someone closer. You shouldn’t have to go through life alone.”

Derek feels his lip curling. “I’m the reason I’m alone. If anyone deserves to be alone, it’s me.”

Lydia stares at him sadly. “You’re a person too, Derek Hale,” she says. “You deserve to be treated like one.” She leans forward and wipes away a tear from Derek’s cheek. “We’ll figure this out,” she says more cheerily, fake enthusiasm. “We always do.” No, not enthusiasm; that’s hope.

“I could retrace my steps if that’ll help?”

“It absolutely would. Scott?”

“Yeah?”

“Get Stiles’ side of the events. Let’s see if we can’t find a common denominator.”

Scott frowns. “Lydia, we’re not doing math, are we?”

“No, Scott. We’re not doing homework.”

“Good.” Scott breathes a sigh of relief. Derek clenches his hands in frustration when he finds himself straining his ears to hear heartbeats.

This being human thing only sucks so much because he’s a werewolf. He’s never been anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anything but werewolf. Maybe he should work with Stiles on the hope thing again?

Just the thought of it turns his stomach and he jumps to his feet.

“I need to get out of here,” he says. “Please?”

“We’ll go to my house,” Lydia offers. “I’ll keep everyone updated.”

She grabs Derek’s arm and steers him out of the door and down the stairs. It’s only once they are back in her Volkswagen that he turns to her and says, “Thank you.”

Lydia studies him for a few moments before nodding. “You’re welcome.”

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **From top note:** The gist of Stiles' confession is that he has rape fantasies and justifies it by saying Derek isn't important enough to warrant not being hurt like that. It does not mean that Stiles will or even really wants to rape Derek. It's included as a way for Stiles to lash out at Derek even more because he is completely consumed with anger. Where Derek could temper his anger, Stiles cannot.
> 
> Most of this story was written just as I got into the fandom, so many choices on writing are not in line with how I write now. That said, this is still a story that I want to finish and still like on some level.
> 
> Check out [my Tumblr](https://1989dreamer.tumblr.com) for more updates.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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